


Like A Friend

by lacedtocrown



Category: Altered Carbon (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Female Sherlock Holmes/Male John Watson, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-03-24 05:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13804158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacedtocrown/pseuds/lacedtocrown
Summary: Sherlock Holmes couldn't risk John Watson's life with an illusion. She had to be dead to the world, as Moriarty intended.Knowledge of the Altered Carbon universe is not needed, all necessary info will be provided. But it is a great universe.





	1. Chapter 1

Trigger fatigue. That was the layman’s term for it, the hand-shaking, the hesitant trigger finger that seemed to be applying the right amount of pressure but somehow not enough. Shutting one’s eyes just as the trigger finally gave way.

Trigger fatigue was an old friend by that night. As was the ringing of that permanently whistling tea kettle. The rain soaked through her very bones, her clothes sticking to every contour of her body with only the faint fold lines to leave anything to the imagination. Those arms that were and were not hers held her small, shivering body as she made her way up the unfamiliar stairs. Faded baby blue and floral print closed in on her as she stepped and stepped and stepped.

Would he recognise her smile? The pained frown she made on less than stellar days? Pandora’s box had become far too welcome a bed. A delicate freckled hand raised to knock on the freshly painted white door. Perhaps too forcefully – her fists were accustomed to the abuse.

“I’ll get it. You enjoy,” a woman’s soft voice eased. The smell of garlic and chicken hit her nose; they were eating dinner.

With a whip of that foreign body, those feet flew back down the stairs and subjected her back to the icicles the London climate chucked at her.

 

One Day Earlier

“We can get you a new sleeve,” suggested the man.

The agency could afford her doing that; switching sleeves like one changed clothes. But people who could afford this never paid with only something as trivial as special paper.

She motioned for the stylist to cut off the hair dryer and ran her fingers through those smooth caramel locks. They fell between her fingers with the ease of a waterfall, and she eyed her brother in the mirror. “No, this one will do.”

“It’s damaged. You haven’t taken very good care of it,” he muttered, adjusting his head to peer at her over his nose.

“Did what I could with what I had. This is good, thank you,” Sherlock said to the stylist as she tossed her head back to make it fall naturally. It would never look this good again under her care.

“I never took you for a traditionalist.”

Her brow quirked and she turned to truly meet her brother’s eyes. “Hardly. Where is my change of clothes?” Mycroft waved a hand to the table next to him and left the room with the stylist.

She gathered the hem of her t-shirt and pulled it over her head with a hiss. Those stitches on her back stuck out like splatter on a masterpiece. The healed scars were clumsy attempts at covering up mistakes with more oil. Sherlock tossed the shirt over the mirror, and her trousers soon covered the rest of it. She drew another t-shirt on and hopped to get her jeans up her hips.

“Where do you plan on going?” her brother asked just as she was out the door. He walked in stride with her down the hallway, to the lift. Once they were inside he poked the correct number and turned to bore his eyes into his false sister.

“Back to Baker Street.” Her tone came with a silent scoff.

“Unimaginative.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You have the whole of the world to dig your teeth into and you want to scamper back home. Like a frightened mouse.”

“I’ve had my taste of the world. Ready to get back to my life.” Her nod sought to affirm the statement and did the opposite.

Mycroft chuckled and his plump chin folded into three. That despicable head laugh that made her want to slam it into the brushed chrome walls. Sherlock’s brow furrowed and she took a breath.

She asked, lips pursed, “Care to explain the joke?”

A pleased sigh left him. “What life do you have to return to? A few rooms of dust-covered possessions?”

“You know very well – John Watson, work.”

“Ah,” he mused. The doors finally opened and Sherlock moved to leave. The lift of his umbrella blocked her chest. A woman waited patiently with a silver bowl in her hands. “What makes you think you will have either? He does have a life, you know.”

“Yes.” The word came out forced through her teeth. She whipped her arm up to move the umbrella out of her way. “I expect a ticket to be emailed to me by the time I get to the airport.” She plucked her keys, wallet, and mobile from the bowl as she passed the woman by. Her feet moved along the edges of a granite square to spin her body, and she left the building.

What a feeling it was to be free, unburdened. If only for the moment.


	2. Chapter 2

“I hope you enjoy your stay.” Hotel hostesses inspired a certain fear and admiration. Their spiels were so practiced and their hands moved swiftly and smoothly, as if in water. Their voices were so clear and friendly. One couldn’t help but be charmed, save for the cynics, the ones who knew those employees went through months of training to appear friendly and charismatic. After two years on the run they all ran together. She was not always fortunate enough to afford a hotel, but when she could, there was always a hostess with a perfectly clear voice and a practiced liveliness.

Tonight was no exception. Sherlock forced a smile as she took her keycard, then turned to lift the hostess pointed to with her perfectly manicured finger. She rode it up and swiped the card to her room. Her hands grasped at her few possessions in her pocket and poured them on top of the dresser a little ways into the room. Like all good hotels, it was pristine in an attempt to make her forget the sins of the previous occupant. She peeled her clothes from her body and stepped into the bathroom. With some fumbling, she turned the bath faucet on and waited for the water to get warm enough to sink that tired waif into the porcelain chamber.

Once she thought it was silly to fawn over a mere man. She would scoff at old movies in which the hero would do anything to return to his lady love. It was just a person. Every single one was a dime a dozen. But no man knew her like Watson. He was the sort that could tell the difference between misanthropy and the need to be held without a word. And it wasn’t right – normal people told others what they needed. But he could not talk either.

So she became that cliché she loathed. She thought of him every night just to fall asleep.

As those knots unwound in her back under the heat of the water, her skin reddened and she let her head ease back against the edge of the tub. Her wounds screamed in protest but they submitted after a minute or two. Her soaking hair floated over her shoulders and streaked a deep brown against the skin above the water.

The woman’s voice was not that of his sister’s. Though she had never put a face to a name, she heard her sobs and mumbles over the phone on many an occasion. This woman spoke like a proper one, enunciating every word with precision.

Her lathered hands scrubbed over her arms and shoulders, then across her chest. Shivers still ran down her spine. She would just have to forget.

After she let the water drained and wrapped her body and head in towels, she plucked her mobile from the dresser and sat on the edge of the bed.

**Watson.**

She tossed it on the bed and crouched over to open the mini-fridge, gathering up the tiny samples of liquor.

~

_“Two years after the scandal that sent the reputation of Sherlock Holmes hurtling down in flames, her name has been cleared-“_

His brow darkened and he punched the power button to the telly. “Too little too late,” he muttered. He tried to follow his therapists’ advice and not be bitter, but how could he avoid it? Careless reporters with the eagerness to latch on to the first convenient, sensationalist story – these were the sorts of people that ruined lives.

“At least they’re trying to do her some justice,” Mary soothed, sitting down next to him. Her arm wrapped around his shoulders and she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I know it doesn’t seem like much, but it’s all that can be done now.”

A soft breath eased out of him. “I know.” It’d never be enough, though. It’d never bring her back. He didn’t even get to see the light fade out of the eyes of the bastard that was responsible. No, that was too kind a word. A bastard stole your identity and racked up a thousand pounds in debt. A bastard tricked your sister into thinking he loved her so he could take her virginity. Moriarty was a monster.

“I have to get to bed. Try not to stay up too late tonight, okay?” Her eyes were open and full of concern, so he had to nod.

“Yeah. ‘Course.” That satisfied her. She retreated to their bedroom and John reclined on the sofa, closing his eyes. The faint yellow from the streetlight filtered in through the window, casting a shadow over half his face. His watch ticked away and he counted every second. Two hundred passed by before he got up with a huff and left the flat. He barely slowed enough to snatch up his coat from the hook beside the door.

When the rain smacked against his head and soaked into his hair, he came to regret his neglect to think of an umbrella. But he was able to get a cab before any shivers set in.

~

She was a pleasant drunk, when she felt the desire to indulge. So was this body. It was a relief to feel safe enough to take just a sip. But as she flipped through channels and settled on the home improvement programme, she downed a little more than was her usual. By the time nine o’clock rolled by, she was sat up against the headboard with her eyes halfway closed, the whole world rocking on the smoothest seas. She twisted the cap to the peppermint vodka halfway and set it on the nightstand.

Her eyes flicked back to the mobile every once in a while. Her inebriated heart couldn’t put the man in the past, but knew well enough that a phone call or a text would never suffice. She lurched forward and hastily pressed a few buttons.

**Delete this contact?**

She tapped “yes” and lay back in relief, flicking off the lamp beside her.


	3. Chapter 3

“Keep the change.” The door opened and out of it clambered a haggard, limping man. He entered the cemetery and hitched his jacket collar over his head. He knew the path by now, never meandering or wondering whether he was supposed to turn at the twentieth headstone or the twenty-fifth. Between the headstones of a George Rector and Katherine Jones sat that old ornament. **Sherlock Holmes, died age 28. Beloved daughter and friend.** They never got around to tying the knot.

Whatever air he drew in when he stood upon the packed earth, it was never enough to fill his lungs. His eyes closed and he drew his shoe over a new patch of clover. His therapist encouraged him to talk.

She might as well ask him to swallow daggers. He fastened his grip on the hem of his coat. “I’ve gotten a ring for Mary. She must know– she’s been even more lovely lately.”

The rain splattered against the headstone in reply.

“It’s not as cheap as the one you asked me for. She likes gold and diamonds, not a miser like you.” He looked to the sky as it began trickling furiously over his jacket and sighed, cracking his knuckles against his thigh. His therapist told him that whatever way he could get it out was better than holding it in, but it never got any easier. He was still talking to something horrific hidden below, where it was convenient. He knew what she looked like now, and would be very comfortable if he never had to lay eyes on her body once more. The thought of her skin sucked tight against her bones made him shiver.

He wanted to tell her that he’d kept his promise and he was getting help. That Mary was nice and she helped. Even if he never got round to telling her who Sherlock truly was and why she should ever have mattered to him. Mary was understanding like that. It was about the one thing she and Sherlock had in common, actually. None of these things were important enough to say. Every time he visited it was with the conviction that this would be the last time and he needed to compose his final words with her. Of course the pressure of finding the right ones meant he was always trudging back.

“I hope –“ His voice cracked, and John lifted a hand as he cleared his throat. His eyes darted ‘round for a moment. “I hope that, ah – that you can forgive me.” The words came stumbling out, as though he believed the woman herself would rise and throttle him. “I’m not like you. I tried, but living alone with this… you wouldn’t be proud of the result, would you?” A gentle, firm smile quirked at his lips. “Hypocrite.”

He knew people would gawk at him and say things like “How could you?” and “Have some respect for the dead,” but not Sherlock. She had the greatest sense of humour, and her laugh could charm any man.

He approached the headstone and laid a few fingers upon it. The cold, wet marble was no match for her soft curls. He’d done everything she’d asked on those late nights, when neither of them could sleep. Buried her in a simple pine box, kept her gun in good condition, and kept going even if it meant counting every breath as a measure of progress. It was never enough.

So he uttered a soft “See you next time” and clenched his fists up again as he trudged through the muddy grass. It was easier to say “not now” than “not ever”; she had taught him that.

~

The rising sun was not the assault she had come to expect. As she rose with a sigh, the only thing that occurred to her was that her nose was dry, and that she was thirsty. It was a trade. She had given up the mornings’ laments and cursing in exchange for the occasional migraine, the inability to wear women’s flowery deodorant and perfume. Sherlock never liked those scents anyway.

She dragged her wiry legs out of the safety of that fluffy comforter and trudged to the sink to turn the faucet on. That body bent over and she drank greedily from the tap, not bothering with the dignity of the plastic cups on the side of the sink.

For once she had a solid night’s sleep. None of the jolting upright swearing she heard a scream. No tensing and scraping at her throat for breath. How silly it was of her to say she’d _understood_ him all those years ago. How could anyone?

Once she was finished sating her thirst, she wiped at her lips and rose. Her back screamed in protest at the motion and she lifted her shirt, turning to sneak a peek at her skin. A breath escaped her and the shirt slipped out of her grasp. She tore it over her head and clutched at her shoulders. Her honeyed skin was broken and splattered with dried gashes and black bruises. Her delicate fingers reached and stretched to touch a wound just a few inches away from her spine, pressing and earning a hiss. This was far enough. No amount of excuses could keep her from a doctor’s cold grasp now.

 

That Afternoon

This was foolish. Her toes curled tight against the soft padding of her shoe soles. One after another, nurses summoned patients from their stiff seats. Every time the door opened her back stiffened and she leaned to see if he was walking across the hall. Or leaving for lunch; it was about that time. Eventually her time had come and a short woman with a tight bun called a name.

“Moira Monahan?” Her voice was tiny and high, like a mouse. Sherlock’s mouth twitched a second before she caught up and stood to follow the woman.

Her height was measured and her weight taken, then she was brought to another room to start the waiting once more. With her thumbs she fidgeted and fumbled until a knock came ringing through the metal door. It opened before her mouth could. A mere glimpse at that blond hair and the silver-touched sideburns had her eyes out of focus. Her body pivoted to follow the movement down the hall and she did not notice the man speaking to her until it was all out of sight.

It was the extended hand that caused her to snap back into the present room. She shook it firmly and breathed a sigh of relief when the doctor closed the door behind him. “Thank you for seeing me, Doctor Sandoval,” she muttered with a forced smile.

“Of course, of course,” muttered the man as he took a seat and pulled himself up to the computer. “Just a few routine questions – do you smoke?”

There was a brief medical history she’d perused before making this choice. It’d been for the best to be as far away from chemical habits as she could. “No,” Sherlock answered with certainty.

“Drink?”

“No more than a few times a year.”

“Are you sexually active?”

“No.”

Was it a flash of surprise on his face? He turned to face her and stood. “All right. So, what are you here for?”

Her throat grew tight and she stared at that spot between his eyebrows. A few stray ones reached to meet with their estranged friends. “I must remind you that nothing leaves this room without my express permission,” she said. Her tone was severe.

Those lonely friends reached a little closer and she flicked her gaze down to her feet. “Of course,” he said. “You have my word.”

Sherlock gave a nod and wordlessly slipped back onto her feet. Her thin fingers curled and tugged at the hem of her shirt, bringing it over her head with a grunt. Her eyes fluttered shut at the stunned silence in which the man resided. She left the shirt on the edge of the seat and took a smooth, measured breath. “I need to know if these wounds have hit anything vital. I suspect not, but I am no doctor.”

A squeaking of leather echoed across the walls, followed by a snapping of gloves. “May I?” he asked. The cold nitrile rubber brushing across her shoulder brought goosebumps over her arms in a writhing shiver. She gave a nod and he prodded at one of the less severe bruises in the small of her back near her spine. “Does this hurt?”

“Mildly.”

“Have you had any difficulty urinating? Presence of blood?”

“No,” she said.

“Fatigue? Loss of appetite?”

“Just the back pain. In the muscle, not the spine,” she clarified.

“Much to be expected, yes.” He prodded at a deep purple one and she winced. “Suffice to say, whatever… activity that resulted in these wounds needs to be stopped immediately. Some of these are very close to your spine and kidneys, and if they were any more severe they could have caused serious damage.”

“Is there anything you can recommend for the pain?” Sherlock asked. “Over the counter medicine.”

Dr. Sandoval rose and began taking off his gloves. “You can put your shirt back on,” he said, and she did so. “I would recommend paracetemol, ice packs, hot soaks. No strenuous activity until these heal, certainly.” He double-clicked a new section of the patient file and began typing. “I can get you in contact with some discreet people,” he offered.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock sighed as she sat back down. “I’m also here to discuss these intense migraines I have…”

The rest of the appointment went by like an easy breeze. The doctor kept forcing these nervous smiles, and she knew when she left the room his mind was not on his next patient. She rolled her shoulders and stopped short in the doorway at the sight of him talking to the receptionist. John.

She didn’t give a thought to it as she rushed out of the waiting room. His hand was on the woman’s shoulder, and she had a comfortable giddiness towards him. Too comfortable a demeanour towards her superior. 

So perhaps she was thinking of it. That didn’t matter as long as the lift submitted to her will. She mashed it again when the door to the waiting room opened and the blonde woman began approaching with a polite smile. One more insistent press and the lift finally rose, but it was too late. She was stepping into it and looking at her expectantly. “What number?”

Sherlock joined her. The thought of the cable snapping and sending them both hurtling towards their deaths didn’t sound all so bad. “Ground floor, please,” she replied. As the doors closed, she looked down to the slip clutched in her hand. “Do you know somewhere nearby I could get this filled?”

“There’s a place right down the corner next to a café. I’m going there to get lunch, actually. Would you like me to show you?”

“That’s all right,” she muttered. ”To the left or to the right?”

“I’ll show you.”

 


End file.
